


nesting period

by raffinit



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M, Fluff, alpha!Max wants to keep her bedridden forever, pregnant omega!Furiosa is pretty much done with being pregnant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 08:49:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6949309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raffinit/pseuds/raffinit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heavily pregnant omega!Furiosa is spoiled by alpha!Max. Some fluffy shit because @fadagaski is evil</p>
            </blockquote>





	nesting period

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fadagaski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/gifts).



The first thing she wakes to is the heavy, persistent weight of her bladder. In hindsight she probably shouldn’t have finished those last three bowls of sweet barley tea, but Max had hovered by her so anxiously, urging the bowls to her mouth with low, mumbling fusses about the heat and needing to keep her hydrated. It was so damn cute that she’d finished all three and then some, and then demanded him to come to bed with her. 

The pups had their cravings sated; it was only fair that he sate their mother’s craving too. 

So she wakes slowly, wrapped in warmth and the soft, sun-toasted smell of the thin sheets around her and the warm, musky smell of alpha on her skin. Max’s arm, tanned from work in the sun and rough with thatches of hair, is wrapped around her swollen middle, hand spanning broad and warm and twitching idly in his sleep. She smiles lazily at the weight of him pressed to her, the way her thighs tingle and ache with the most delicious kind of soreness, but her bladder is full, and the pups are pressing none-too-gently on it. 

She pushes herself up slowly, nudging Max off from where he has draped himself over her like a warm, gently snoring blanket. It’s a struggle to heft herself up from one side, rocking back almost immediately; a comical impersonation of an overturned insect. She flails again, breaths puffing out hard from exertion before she flops back on the bed in defeat. So late in her pregnancy, she can hardly move on her own, and Furiosa huffs when she realizes that yes - she’s going to need help getting out of bed. 

“Max,” she says gently, squeezing his arm. 

He wakes abruptly, as he always does; eyes sharp and searching. “Hnnh?” He wipes the sleep from his eyes with a grunt, reaches to her again before his eyes are even fully opened.

“Help,” is all she says to him, blowing out a puff of breath. Getting up and sitting down have become nearly impossible to do alone now, ungainly with a belly near-bursting with pups. Mardhi says it’s any day now - at least two pups, she’d told them, if not three. Maybe even four.  


Max eases her up gently, and together they get her to the chamber pot of sand that the War Boys had helped jury-rig onto the base of a broken chair for Furiosa. He settles her down gently on the padded seat and waits at her side dutifully, smothering a yawn and scratching the tuft of sleep-mussed hair at the back of his head. Furiosa tugs at his arm and they maneuver back to the bed, slow and waddling. 

“Soon,” he promises her, when Furiosa huffs and looks at him with an accusing and petulant glare. His hands slide over her rounded belly so soft and calm, presses flat over his shirt - that she wears to bed now for the lack of anything more comfortable than nudity. He rubs her belly and strokes her arms, reaches to cup her heavy breasts. Her milk has begun to come in with slow, watery dribbles of fluid; colostrum, the Vuvalini tell her. A precursor to a hearty supply of milk, and Max had puffed up so smugly at that. 

She brushes his hand away when she feels him squeeze in the slightest pressure, grunts at him reproachfully when she sees the wet stain appear on her chest. Furiosa narrows her eyes up at him. “They’re not  _ toys _ .”

“Breasts,” he says agreeably, nodding his head along indulgently before kneeling by her, wipes the frown from her mouth with a searing kiss. “Pretty breasts. Good breasts. Breasts for the pups.”

“And not for you to fondle whenever you feel like,” she mumbles against his mouth, even if she’s grinning at him. 

He urges her back into the pillows, fusses with her shoulders and back and readjusts things to proper elevation while Furiosa smiles indulgently at him all the while. “I’m okay,” she promises him, a laugh in her voice as he rubs a strand of her hair between his fingers and hums thoughtfully.

“It’s grown out so much,” she says, shaking her head lightly; the strands fall enough over her face and Max brushes them back behind her ear. “Guess I haven’t thought about it much - can’t think about sitting still with your pups kicking me in the bladder every morning. And at night. And whenever they feel like it.”

He smiles at her slightly. “In the old days,” he murmurs quietly, twirling the strand now. “Used to believe it wasn’t good...to cut hair when you’re pupped. Some thought it was bad luck. Old wives’ tale, I suppose.”

Furiosa hums back at him, head tilted into his hand, eyes lazy and shut against the warmth of his palm. “I’m not a wife,” she says.

“No,” he nods. “You’re pupped, though.”

“Max, I’m just tired, that’s all,” she insists, but Max shakes his head, grunting quietly as he goes to the door of their room. 

“Get the Free Boys to fill up a bath,” he tells her. “‘s good for your muscles. Hot water.” He shouts down the way and grabs the first boy to walk past their door, murmuring low and urgent to him until the Free Boy nods eagerly and goes running back down the hallway. In the meantime of waiting for the tub to be brought to them, Max wraps Furiosa in their covers gently, fluffs up layers of Vuvalini woven blankets and soft, clean sheets that smell faintly of her and him; alpha musk and clean crisp omega, bred up and waiting to whelp. 

She burrow into the nest contentedly, a purr in her own throat as Max wraps himself around her like a protective oversized cat; she feels his fingers run through her hair, and she moans happily. A deep, intrinsic part of her wants only this - her alpha, warm and solid and tender pressed against her, curled within a perfectly good nest to birth her pups, and maybe some food. Another part of her wants to sleep and wake when everything is over and done with: no more babies, no more belly, no more twingeing in her back and shoulders and legs from the strain of lugging around humans inside her. 

She pulls the pillows and blankets around her almost subconsciously, patting them down and trampling them with her hands and body until they are soft and warm beneath her. In time, she knows that her body will dictate that she will birth her pups on her hands and knees, or leaned back against Max as he walks her upright and lets gravity ease the way of their children. That she will spend the days after the birth nursing her children here in the nest full of her scent and Max’s, lying on her side and watching her pups’ small faces as they doze and nurse at her breast. 

_ He will be a good father _ .

She must fall asleep dreaming these things, because the next thing she remembers is Max holding her gently, easing her up to where a relatively large tub had been rolled from the bathing chambers up to their room. The water steams idly inside it, and Furiosa sheds his shirt with some reluctance. She nearly flushes at the look on Max’s face when she’s naked; reaches to rub her hand over the dark, wide line that runs over the length of her round belly down between her hips, the blue veins showing clear on pale skin. She’s never been self-conscious about her body, not in the service of Joe, not when she was working to cover every inch of her body in white and convincing everyone else that she was no more appealing than the scrawny boys half-dead. 

But he looks at her as if she were some kind of distant goddess, a mirage of glistening water after years of dry sun and hot sand. 

Her breasts are heavier now, larger; her areolas darker. At first she’d thought that Max was beyond the obsession with Mother’s Milk and breasts - and he wasn’t obsessed, no, he just seemed to like her breasts a  _ lot _ . 

A lot a lot. 

She rolls her eyes at the way he eyes them, gripping Max’s arm to be guided into the tub.

“I feel like I could pop,” she complains to him, sinking down into warm water that envelops her like wet leather. Her belly protrudes some of the way out of the water, shallow enough to cover her up past her breasts, but her knees and dome of her belly peek out. 

Max pets her belly affectionately, rumbling in his throat with a quiet, contented look on his face when she feels the pups roll inside her, kicking up at his warm hand. A rumble of a chuckle pulls from his lips, and Furiosa feels warmth spread in her chest, the flutter of something beyond the rolling babies inside her low in her hips. She sinks lower into the water and leans her head back against the edge, lets her muscles go lax in the water. There’s a shuffling behind her, a quiet grunt of annoyance when something metal clicks and clunks against the stool, and Furiosa cracks an eye open. 

“Lean back,” Max says, and Furiosa feels his hands rest gently on her shoulders, easing her up just enough to have her shoulders and upper back exposed to him. He presses in close behind her, hands smoothing over her skin, mouth pressing to the back of her ear in a nuzzling kiss as his hands begin to knead and rub at aching muscle. 

Furiosa hitches on a gasp, eyes squeezing shut as she melts into his hands eagerly, moaning at the way he works skilled thumbs into the knots and divots of tense muscle in her shoulders, the persistent strength of his fingers moving rhythmically. 

“Hnmmmm, knew I kept you around for a reason,” she mumbles, smirking at the indignant chuff he gives her. 

She dozes idly in the water, lulled into the quiet of the day with the whirl of sand and wind kicking up by her window every once and awhile; the sounds of cranes and humans and the thunder-growl of V8 engines from down below. It’s easy to lean back into him, rest her weight into his knees and hands without the pups’ weight threatening to smother her in her sleep for once.   

A loud, rumbling growl breaks the silence, and Max’s hands still on her shoulders. Even if she’s not looking at him, she knows there’s a twitching, quivering smile on his face, that bastard. 

She huffs, blushing up from her chest up into the ridges of her cheekbones. “This is what I get for having feral babies.”

“Mnn.”

“I feel like I eat for an army.”

“Yes.”

She glares at him sidelong. “Stop looking so damn smug, fool. You did this to me.”

Max gives her a gimpy smile. “I did,” he says, and dodges the flick of water she swats at him. 

“Well, help me up,” she sighs, bracing herself on the edges of the tub and feeling his hands slip dutifully under her arms as they heft her up together. She sways precariously for a moment, slippery and shivering slightly from the wafting breeze in the room, but Max is there immediately, dabbing and rubbing her skin with soft muslin. 

“I want...lizards,” she says, after some thought. She wiggles back into his shirt and pulls the necklines up into her face, purrs at the smell of him on the material as she curls back onto the bed. “Crispy. With apples. And tea leaves.”

She sees the furrow in Max’s forehead deepen briefly, but he says nothing; only nods, fusses over her again, and then pauses to readjust the pillows. 

“Don’t move,” he tells her from the doorway. 

Furiosa waves her hand over her belly with a flourish. “Where could I  _ possibly  _ run to?”


End file.
